


the way that you stared at me

by zeitgeistofnow



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Deaf Character, Fluff, M/M, artist! ernst, hanschen is Trying, i don't hate melchior but i make fun of him a lot, well i guess i kinda do hate him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 11:51:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16743460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistofnow/pseuds/zeitgeistofnow
Summary: hanschen finds himself in the collection of trees next to his house (thick enough to be a woods, too thin to be a forest) and he thinks that ernst is an angel at first, haloed and etheral.





	the way that you stared at me

**Author's Note:**

> hey i hope you like this!! btw my georg & hanschen are both black and ernst is based of the ernst from a production i saw one time that i loved. you're welcome to envision them however you'd like, but yk. just so that any throwaway comments about their appearance make some sense, know i'm not basing them on joshua & andy.
> 
> title from ‘lucky escape’ by years & years

Hanschen thinks he’s an angel, at first, haloed by tree branches and almost glowing in the dusty light. He’s pretty enough to be one of the angels Hanschen’s mom used to tell him about, the ones who watch over people still earthbound, the ones with bright eyes and soft smiles. 

It takes him a moment to register that he’s just a kid Hanschen’s age, nestled in between the trees with his head bowed and cocooned in a thick sweater the color of tree bark. His skin is pale and spotted with soft freckles and his hair is curly and shoulder-length, flyaways blending in with the tree branches. He’s a few yards into the forest, nearly blending in with the pines and oaks. Hanschen startles and almost drops the school camera he’s lugging around. 

It’s an invasion of privacy to take a picture of some random guy in the middle of the forest, especially when the guy looks like he’s meditating, or sleeping. Or maybe praying. It’s probably sacrilegious to photograph a praying person, and Hanschen, as a rule, doesn’t risk anything for school assignments, so there’s no reason for him to stay in that particular area of the forest, contemplating the moral effects of taking a photo of someone without their consent. 

He should just continue on his way, find an old oak tree, take a few pictures, and turn that in on Monday. His teacher would buy it, especially from him. Hanschen Rillow’s not exactly known for putting effort into school assignments, or for being artistic. He should leave. 

But he doesn’t, and the guy seems to notice Hanschen’s gaze. His head shoots up and he cycles through a range of emotions before settling on confused. Hanschen takes silent note of the fact that he never landed on anger, then takes another silent note that the personality of this almost-angelic boy is none of his business. 

_ “Who’re you,” _ the boy signs at the same time Hanschen blurts,

“Ms. Knuppeldick!”

It’s not what he means to say- he doesn’t  _ mean  _ to say anything, means to assume an nonchalant expression and focus the camera lens on the nearest mushroom and pretend he never saw the boy, but instead the name of his art teacher spills out of his mouth. When the boy blushes and gestures at his ears, Hanschen repeats it in ASL. He’s said something dumb, but he’s not going to take it back now. He has a code of honor, no matter how embarrassing what he said was.

His mortification must show on his face because the boy stifles his laughter and leans back against the tree. He’s wearing khakis and the bottom of them is probably covered in dirt and pine needles. The concept bothers Hanschen, but the boy doesn’t seem to care.  _ “I have her. You’re doing the photography thing, then?” _

Hanschen freezes, wondering if the boy somehow knew that he was considering photographing him, wondering  _ how  _ he would know, until he nods at Hanschen’s camera awkwardly and Hanschen lets out a small, unconscious sigh of relief. _ “Yeah. We’re not allowed to use our phones.” _ A pause and the boy nods minutely, his look of confusion deepening. _ “I mean, you’d know that,” _ Hanschen adds hurriedly.  _ “If you’re taking her class.” _

_ “I went to the library for my photos. I took pictures of my favorite books,”  _ A blush spreads across the boys face at the statement as if it’s something more revealing than what he did for an assignment. 

Cool. They’re having a conversation, they’re not talking about the fact that Hanschen was creepily staring at the boy pray, and he seems just as awkward as Hanschen. Hanschen shrugs off his sweatshirt and drapes it on a tree stump near the guy, then sits down on it.  _ “I figured plants and stuff would be an easy ‘A’,” _ he signs, then worries that the boy is going to get offended at the prospect of Hanschen not putting his heart into the project. 

The boy just giggles, half-heartedly covering his mouth with one hand. His nails are painted deep gray, the same color as his shoes. Who matches their nail polish with their Converse?

_ “I’m Hanschen,” _ Hanschen signs to the boy, who nods and blushes again. 

_ “I know. You’re like,” _ he nods his head vaguely and uses one hand to swipe his hair out of his eyes.  _ “Everyone knows you.” _

Which Hanschen was aware of, since that was the goal of most of the things he did during his school hours, but it feels different hearing it from the boy. It feels like the purpose of all of the tedious socializing was so that this guy would know his name. 

_ “I’m Ernst,” _ he signs, fingerspelling the name.

Hanschen almost drops the camera for the second time that hour.  _ “Ernst Robel?” _ he asks, for clarification that isn’t really needed, because there’s no other Ernst’s at the school. Probably no other Ernst’s in the town.

Ernst looks uneasy with the scrutiny, but he nods.

Ernst Robel was in Hanschen’s preschool class, back when neither of them were much taller than Melchior Gabor’s dog, back when Melchior Gabor’s dog was still alive and Hanschen still gave a shit about anything related to Melchior Gabor. Hanschen was terrified of the prospect of being abandoned, left at the elementary school like a common child and not like his  _ mother’s son,  _ but she’d left him there regardless, bawling his eyes out. 

Ernst had walked up to him, trailing a pale green blanket. He had done  _ something  _ to calm Hanschen down, the only part of the otherwise clear memory that Hanschen can’t recall. Preschooler Hanschen had been immediately smitten, and his elementary crush on Ernst had remained a fixture through fifth grade when he had ceased to have any classes with Ernst. He had been his motivation for learning ASL.

He looked very different now. Taller, with sharper features and a more solemn disposition, but the same hair, same incredibly long eyelashes, the same way that he looks at Hanschen: like he’s an easy puzzle with an odd completed picture. It’s unnerving, but Hanschen remembers it from preschool and it’s strangely comforting in the way the creepy teddy bear his dad gave him when he was little is. Unusual, but familiar.

Hanschen doesn’t say any of this. _ “Mrs. Knuppledick talks about you all the time. Your star paintings were incredible,” _ he says instead, which is true. They were all bright colors and dotted stars, like the nebulas that the Hubble telescope captured, with white writing at the bottom of each page. Pretty stuff, excerpts from love letters. Hanschen isn’t sure if they’re quotes or if Ernst wrote them. Mrs. Knuppledick didn’t say. 

Ernst blushes and, maybe unconsciously, tugs a tree branch in front of his face.  _ “Eh. I wasn’t super happy with them.” _

_ “Are you kidding? They were so pretty!” _ Hanschen almost doesn’t think about the words as he signs them- he never used to think about what he was saying. Until third grade, he simply said whatever he thought, leading to a few dozen detentions. He doesn’t do that anymore. 

Well, not usually, but Ernst makes him feel clearer. It’s nice, and a bit terrifying.

_ “Who were they about?”  _ Hanschen asks, then winces. 

_ “A boy I liked when I was little,” _ Ernst signs, his hand motions progressively getting smaller.

Hanschen only vaguely knew that Ernst liked boys- he heard it from Thea, who heard it from Ilsa, who heard it from someone, and someone, and someone. Theoretically, the chain led back to Wendla, but Hanschen had dismissed the gossip. 

He doesn’t know what to say: ‘sorry you haven’t been able to tell this guy you liked him’ seems inappropriate, but so does, ‘my second-grade self would be thrilled to hear that you’re queer.’

_ “Nice,” _ he settles on, and he knows that it’s lame as he signs it. 

Ernst just shrugs, and the conversation lapses into silence, just the rustling of trees and trilling of birds filling the space between them.

 

The next day Hanschen finds himself back in the woods, telling himself it’s not because of the off-chance that he’ll see Ernst again, but because he never did finish his photography project and there really is nothing easier for this project than just snapping some high-quality pictures of birch trees and turning them in. Before he gets out of his car be reapplies his lipstick- it’s his favorite, and only partly because he looks great in it. Mostly because the lady who’d helped him pick out what color to try had said that he couldn’t wear bright colors with his darker skin tone, and look at how hot he is. He winks at his reflection.

He just happens to find himself where Ernst had been sitting the day before, and- he smothers his grin- Ernst is sitting there again, in a wrinkled, pinstripe button up and skinny jeans. 

“ _ Hey _ .” He sits on the same stump he had the day before and crosses his legs in front of him. 

“Ah!” Ernst exclaims, and glances up, his serene look being replaced by one that’s half shy, half elated. Hanschen thinks it’s incredible, but it’s replaced, in turn, by one almost suspicious. _ “You’re back?” _

_ “I never actually got those photos.”  _ It’s right then that Hanschen notices that he didn’t remember the camera- he can see it in his mind's eye, sitting at the foot of his bed. He curses, and Ernst must be around people who swear enough that he can read Hanschen’s lips. His mouth quirks up.

_ “I like your lipstick.” _

_ “I like your lips,”  _ Hanschen replies. It takes a moment for what he’s said to sink in.  _ Shit.  _ He just- it was so easy, and flirting comes maybe too easily for Hanschen, and- when he looks up from his hands Ernst is staring at him, one hand touching his bottom lip. He doesn’t look mortified, which Hanschen takes as a good sign. He looks stunned, actually.

“Uh.” Hanschen peers at him.  _ “Ernst?” _

_ “Those paintings were for you,”  _ Ernst’s signing is rushed, like he wants to get the words out before he can stop himself.  _ “They were dumb, but I turned them in because I hadn’t done an actual project.”  _

Hanschen nods slowly. He blinks. Then he mutters something about forgetting his camera and runs away from Ernst, down the pine-needle-carpeted trail.

He’s just all about making good decisions today, isn’t he.

 

He stops Georg the next day before school, leaning against the locker next to his and waving away the girl he’s chatting with. Hanschen considers chasing her away one of his daily good deeds- Georg twists his hands and cards his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, and his hair is frizzing out and his hands are already chapped.

“Hey!” Georg protests- once the girl is out of sight. Hanschen rolls his eyes.

“Oh, shut up. You looked like you were going to have a panic attack, anyway. If you keep running your hands through your curls when you’re nervous, they’re always going to be too dry.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just because your spend a hour every night with your hair doesn’t mean the rest of us need to.” He bends over to grab his piano music- Hanschen has, occasionally, wondered who gave Georg a free period for his piano, but he asked once and Georg just frowned at him like it should be obvious, so he’s just accepted it.

“That’s not why I came over here.” Hanschen says- if Georg goes to class, Hanschen’s plan is out the window. 

“I’m glad.” He looks up. “Nice lipstick, by the way.”

Hanschen preens. “Thanks. Anyway, you’re friends with Robel?”

“Sorta?” Georg shrugs. “I sit with him at lunch, but that’s just because Otto likes him.”

“ _ Otto  _ likes him? I didn’t think Ernst was his type.”

Georg looks horrified. “I didn’t mean like  _ that.  _ I don’t think Otto likes him- shit, do you think he does?”

Hanschen does his best not to look amused.

“I didn’t think he was gay- did you know he was gay?” Georg twists his fingers in one hand anxiously. Hanschen wants to hand him a tub of vaseline. 

Hanschen thinks about Otto- he’s never really talked to him, if he’s being honest, but yeah, he knew he was gay. He’d thought Otto was dating Georg, honestly. He should probably know more about his friend’s life, but it’s not like he really likes Georg. “Yeah. You didn’t?”

Georg’s ears redden. “I mean, I’d sorta hoped-” He shakes his head abruptly, and Hanschen thinks maybe he wasn’t too far off when he thought they were together. “You were asking about Ernst?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to know a bit more about him.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

“I dunno, man. He’s quiet, seems to like animals and trees and nature shit. Otto probably knows him better. Or Wendla.” Georg shrugs back at him and slam his locker. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Hanschen mumbles. Georg disappears into the sea of other high schoolers making their way to their next classes. 

 

Luckily, Wendla is in Hanschen’s second period. Unluckily, she’s on the other side of the room. Even more unluckily, Ernst meets her at the door right after class (almost materializing there, somehow looking as idyllic in a band t-shirt at school as in a sweater in the middle of a forest) which rules out talking to her after class. Hanschen and Ernst make awkward eye contact as he exits the classroom. Hanschen’s face heats up and he conspicuously looks away, but he doesn’t manage to catch Wendla’s eye.

So he tries again at lunch, ditching Melchior ( _tra_ gically) and Anna (slightly more sadly) and going over to where Wendla is sitting. He’s careful to avoid Georg and Ernst’s eyes. It’s significantly easier with Georg, who’s making eyes at Otto. Ernst waves at him- the gesture is close to his chest and tiny. Hanschen hides his grin and taps Wendla’s shoulder. 

_ “Hi!”  _ she signs, setting down the bag of tiny chocolate chip cookies she was eating. 

_ “Can I talk with you?” _

Wendla fake-pouts, leaning back against the lunch table.  _ “I dunno. Melchior hasn’t told me many good things about you.” _

_ “Melchior’s a bastard.”  _ Hanschen rests a hand on his hip.

Ernst snickers, and Hanschen wants to catch the noise like a lightning bug and keep it in a jar.

_ “Why do you want to talk with me?”  _ Wendla asks. Hanschen shrugs, aware of Ernst’s eyes on him.

_ “Oh, you know, Melchior talks about you and Moritz so much, I thought it would be nice to…”  _ Shit. Why does he want to get to know Wendla and Moritz? They seem nice, but no one at the table would believe that he, Hanschen Rilow, wanted to be friends with them.  _ “...corrupt you. I’m all about taking the things Melchior likes.”  _

Georg actually looks away from Otto to wince at Hanschen, but Wendla giggles. 

_ “You’ve convinced me. I’m all yours.”  _ Hanschen offers her her arm, and she takes it, smoothing out her dress as Hanschen steers her out into the hallway. Her smile disappears as soon as they make it out of the cafeteria. Wendla leans against the wall, slipping a hand into the pockets in her dress. (Hanschen is silently awed, because there is nothing better than a dress with pockets.  _ Nothing. _ )

When Hanschen doesn’t sign anything, she extracts the hand and signs,  _ “So?”  _

_ “Where’d you get your dress?”  _ He asks, because he thinks that asking Ernst’s hand in marriage is a little much, and he’s forgotten whatever else he was going to ask her. 

_ “Target,”  _ Wendla responds. She frowns, thinking, then smiles.  _ “But I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that you didn’t drag me out of the lunchroom to ask me about my dress.” _

_ “I did.”  _ Hanschen shoots back. Wendla looks unimpressed.

_ “Is it Ernst?” _

_ “Is it who? Ernst?”  _ Hanschen tries to look incredulous, and god, he wishes he’d never dragged himself into this conversation. 

_ “I’m deaf, not blind, Hanschen.”  _ Wendla smiles teasingly.  _ “He likes flowers, so bring him those, and, like all of us, he loves ice cream. Salted caramel. Take him somewhere nice.”  _ Wendla pushes herself off the wall and walks back into the cafeteria, leaving Hanschen in the hallway, alone.

 

_ “Hey,”  _ Hanschen greets Ernst, sitting down on the same stump. He sets the school’s camera and his backpack down beside him. Ernst is still wearing his band t-shirt from earlier, and there are tiny pieces of bark on the shoulders.

_ “You’re here,”  _ Ernst states, which Hanshen thinks is a tab self-evident, but to each his own. And, he reminds himself, he did run off last time.  _ “Why?” _

_ “It occured to me that I didn’t actually ask why you sit in the forest daily, so I wanted to come back.”  _ A white lie. Hanschen actually came back because he wants to know what Ernst’s mouth tastes like, and because he bought flowers and it would suck if he had to give them to Melchior or something. 

_ “Oh.”  _ This couldn’t have been the first time someone asked Ernst that question, but he looks like it, blinking at Hanschen.  _ “I just like it. It’s peaceful. And you know how loud siblings can be.”  _ His mouth quirks up at the corner. 

Hanschen laughs, even though it wasn’t that funny, just because he is.  _ Absolutely  _ terrified.  _ “Yeah.”  _ There’s a pause and Hanschen watches Ernst stare at his hands.  _ “Hey, I brought ice cream. Wendla said you liked salted caramel?” _

Ernst beams.  _ “You asked Wendla what ice cream flavor I liked?”  _

_ “Wendla told me. Absolutely no prompting.”  _ Hanschen grabs the pint of ice cream and plastic spoons from his backpack- it’s slowly melting, and dripping on his math homework. They eat without signing anything for a few minutes before Hanschen puts down his spoon. Ernst hesitantly starts to put his down too, but Hanschen waves at him.  _ “It’s fine, you can keep eating.” _

Ernst’s grin was totally worth the five dollars the ice cream cost. 

_ “I looked at your paintings again today.”  _ Hanschen starts tentatively. Ernst furrows his eyebrows, but he doesn’t tell Hanschen to stop, so he doesn't.  _ “They’re pretty fucking incredible. Even the ones that weren’t for me were neat.” _

_ “That’s sweet,”  _ Ernst signs with one hand, looking amused and anxious at the same time.

_ “I wrote you a letter in third grade,”  _ he continues,  _ “It was a marriage proposal, and probably the nicest thing I’ve ever written. I never gave it to you, obviously.”  _ He stops. “Um.” In his planning, he honestly never got this far. Ernst had yet to run off screaming, so he couldn’t have been doing awful, and yet.  _ “Ernst?” _

_ “Which was your favorite?”  _ Ernst asks, sticking the plastic spoon into the ice cream and staring intently at Hanschen.

_ “Of the paintings?” _

Ernst nods.

_ “I don’t know.”  _ Hanschen had examined them, not quite believing anyone could make anything that beautiful with him in mind, until the colors and the stars bled together and Melchior got impatient, but he hadn’t chosen a favorite. 

Ernst nods again.  _ “I’d hoped-”  _ he stops, dropping his hands.

_ “That this would be easier,”  _ Hanschen finishes, half to himself. This wasn’t how this was supposed to work. This was supposed to be easier that everything else, because it’s Ernst, and everything always came so easily when he was with him.

Ernst glances up and smiles.  _ “Yeah, I guess.” _

_ “Well, I mean, we need to try, right?” _

Ernst nods. His smile widens.

Hanschen is enamored. 

_ “By the way,”  _ Hanschen adds, lifting the camera onto his lap.  _ “I need a model for my art class, and you are, objectively, the second prettiest person in the school.” _

_ “Second to you, right?” _

_ “Of course.” _

That’s a lie. Hanschen knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he doesn’t hold a candle to the angel that is Ernst Robel, and he thinks about telling him that, but Ernst stands up, dusting off his jeans, and offers Hanschen his hand.

Hanschen takes it. 


End file.
